


scoops ahoy

by Quillium



Series: May and Peter's Ice Cream Parlour [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Gen, It's me so, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, post-Endgame but FFH hasn't happened yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-11-01 06:37:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20810714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillium/pseuds/Quillium
Summary: “How are we doing?” May asks, fingers running through Peter’s hair. They’re crouched in the bathtub, a cup of hot chocolate lukewarm on the counter leaving a dark ring beneath it, gathering themselves in the aftermath of his panic attack.“Fine,” Peter replies, squeezing his eyes shut, “I just—I was hoping I wouldn’t get these anymore.”ORPost-Endgame, Peter takes a break from Spider-man, May opens an ice cream parlour, and slowly but surely, things get better.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I missed writing a Peter that wasn't full of trust issues, so we're diving into a fluffy little fic where Peter already has a strong support group that he's unafraid to lean on.

Tony dies and Peter, for a little, forgets how to breathe.

May, amazing, fantastic May, says, “You’re going to quit,” in the firmest voice he’s heard her use since Ben died, and he does.

He puts the suit in a suitcase, puts the inheritance Tony left in a savings account, and he doesn’t—he doesn’t forget, because forgetting is bad, because he can’t forget Tony, Spider-man, everything that meant to him, but he takes a step back, because it’s too much.

They open an ice cream parlour—open it officially, after months and months of planning and paperwork and budgeting—a year after the incident.

The papers have stopped asking _where is Spider-man_, the panic attacks have more space in between, and it isn’t perfect but Peter is alive and breathing and it’s better than it has been, before, when everything was _panicpanicpanic _and his breath in his throat.

The parlour opens with a fair amount of success, every loves ice cream, after all (and the shaved ice certainly helps), a field trip to Europe (freaking _Europe_) is being planned, and the world isn’t ending.

“Pick a flavour,” Peter tells Ned, who’s staring at them all with a mildly panicked expression, “Just one.”

“There are so many options,” Ned says.

“They’re all great,” Peter reassures him, “And the whole place is nut-free.”

“Aw, for me?”

“I mean, for people who are allergic to nuts in general,” May says, kissing Peter on the cheek, “but yeah, you were a large factor. I’m going on a date, do you mind looking after the shop for me?”

“Of course not. Is it with _Liv_?”

May goes red, “That’s none of your business.”

Peter brightens, “Is it getting _serious_?”

“I should have just said that I was taking my lunch break.”

“Tell me all the non-sexy details when you get back!”

“I’m not having sex, Peter!”

“Okay, well, even if you did, I’d be totally supportive—I mean, don’t _tell_ me, because you’re, like, my _mom_, but if you do want to, it’s totally okay and—“

“Oh my _god_,” May says, very loudly, in a teenager-esque fashion, “Can’t I think a girl is pretty and brilliant and nice and smart and just want to date her and not have sex?”

“I want the Superkid with coconut shavings and smarties on top,” Ned says, very loudly, possibly to save himself from this awful conversation about sex.

“_Yes_,” Peter says, desperate to pull himself out of the hole that he dug them all into, “Yes, that sounds great, we love ice cream, bye, May, have fun and don’t worry if your lunch break is long or anything, I just want you to have a good time with—“

The bell above the door tinkles shut as May shuts it behind her.

“Oh my _god_,” Peter says, muffled, burying his face in his hands, “Why didn’t you _stop me_?”

“I didn’t know _how_,” Ned groans, “Just—let’s talk about something else.”

“Yes,” Peter says, desperately, scrambling as he starts to scoop Ned’s ice cream, “Uh—did you see that one anime that Cindy likes? _Given_? I’ve been listening to the stuff on Spotify recently and it’s pretty cool but it always makes me cry when I’m listening to Mafuyu’s song because—“

__

“Dorkenstein,” MJ says, legs looped over Ned’s, book half-open against her stomach, head hanging off the edge of the stage, “You’re late.”

“I’m early,” Peter protests.

“You’re not some newbie, you should try to get here before the niners.”

“Oh my _god_,” Peter says, “First of all, Brad’s our age—“

“He’s a baby.”

“—He’s _our age_. And second of all, Brad’s always early.”

“I’m right here,” Brad says, pointedly, from where he’s talking with Betty about _Birds of Prey_.

“Hey, babe,” MJ drawls.

Brad reddens.

Peter groans, “Please stop harassing him.”

“Not my fault a literal child wants to join our ranks.”

“He’s _our age_!”

“It’s alright, Peter,” Brad pats his shoulder, “MJ’s just teasing.”

“Yeah, Peter,” MJ agrees, eyes gleaming, “I’m just teasing.”

He huffs and jumps onto the stage, “Move your book.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m tired.”

“Fair,” MJ stretches her arms up, the book still in her hands, and starts to read out loud, “_Joan disappeared downstairs to check the laundry and brought up the old dusty hunting rifle that George’s father kept on a rack above the pool table in the basement_—“

Peter rests his head against her stomach and closes his eyes. He can feel every breath MJ takes with the steady rise and fall, the press of her ribcage when she inhales too sharply, Ned’s hip against his arms, and it feels comfortable.

“Everything okay?” Ned whispers, leaning in, fingers feather-light against Peter’s face.

“Yeah,” Peter whispers back, MJ’s voice soft in the background, “I’m just tired. I’ll be okay.”

“Alright,” Ned squeezes his hand, an unspoken promise, _I’ll be here if that changes_, and Peter holds that feeling, warm and reassured, tight in his chest.

_Okay_, Peter thinks, and lets himself nap in this lull before the meeting begins, Brad and Betty talking in the background, Ned scribbling through his homework, and MJ, reading, quiet.

__

“I want ten infinity scoops,” Morgan announces, completely serious, standing on her tip toes so that her collarbones make it above the counter, straining to make herself seem taller, more grown up.

“Ten infinities is a lot,” Peter says, “Some may say, impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible,” Morgan insists, puffing out her cheeks, eyes blazing.

Peter bites down a smile as he glances up at Pepper, “What can she get?”

“Ten infinities,” Morgan begs, tugging at Pepper’s butter yellow cardigan, jutting out her lower lip in a pout, “Please? It would please me ever so much.”

_Ever so much_, Peter mouths at Pepper, the two of them sharing a fond smile.

“She’ll have one scoop,” Pepper ruffles Morgan’s hair, “Which she’ll choose carefully, yes?”

“One scoop is nowhere _near_ ten infinities,” Morgan sighs.

“There are billions of atoms in each scoop,” Peter points out, “And you could go infinitely smaller, shrinking, so really, each scoop contains an infinity of its own within itself.”

“Fancy science doesn’t change that it’s only one scoop,” Morgan says gravely, glaring at Peter as though he just kicked a puppy.

“You make a valid argument,” Peter bites down a smile, “But your mother is in charge.”

“She won’t be forever.”

“Oh, no? Are you planning to usurp her?”

“Yes,” Morgan declares. She tugs at Pepper’s hand, and when Peter pretends to look busy with the cash register, demands in a loud whisper, “What does that mean?”

“Usurp?” Pepper asks, waiting for Morgan’s nod before explaining, “to take a position of power illegally or by force.”

Morgan nods, and then turns to Peter and smacks a hand against the counter, “No,” she says, “I meant when I grow up. I’m almost seven, you know.”

“That’s very old,” Peter agrees solemnly, “But I’m seven_teen_ and my mom is still in charge of me.”

Morgan gasps dramatically, “But you’re so old!”

“Not old enough. So you might have to wait a while.”

Morgan groans and turns to Pepper, “Can I _please_ have more than one scoop, mommy?”

“Sorry, sweetheart. One scoop is enough.”

“Alright,” Morgan grumbles, grouchy as she tacks on, “Thank you for the yummy treat, mommy,” in complete monotone, “I’ll have the s’mores ice cream with gummy bears and rainbow sprinkles and chocolate sauce and raspberry sauce and caramel sauce and smarties and—“

“And I’ll have a small cup of shaved ice with red bean sauce,” Pepper cuts in, picking up and balancing Morgan on her hip, “Thank you very much, Peter.”

“Thanks, Miss Potts,” Peter laughs, “Morgan, your ice cream order seems pretty ambitious.”

“I’m an ambitious girl,” Morgan says solemnly, “I want to climb to the top of the fridge all by myself one day.”

Peter casts Pepper an alarmed look, “That sounds dangerous.”

“Well, I have to wait until I’m thirty, but mommy says that if I work _really_ hard, I can do it when I’m twenty.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. So I will work hard.”

“At what?”

“What?”

“What will you work hard at?”

Morgan pulls a baffled face, “What?”

“Never mind,” Peter finishes their ice cream order, “One scoop of s’mores ice cream with gummy bears and smarties and rainbow sprinkles and all your sauces, and a medium cup of shaved ice with red bean sauce for Miss Potts.”

“I ordered a small.”

“You always tip enough for a medium.”

“They’re _tips_, they aren’t for the order.”

“I’m sure Morgan can eat your leftovers,” Peter winks at Morgan, who giggles conspiratorially.

“You spoil her too much,” Pepper says fondly as Peter adds a maraschino cherry on top of Morgan’s order, “Alright, alright. Thank you, Peter.”

“Thank you, Peter,” Morgan echoes, “See you tomorrow!”

“See you at movie night,” Pepper corrects Morgan, “Nice try, but this was a special treat. I can’t get you ice cream every day, missy.”

“You can,” Morgan suggests, “I’ll be healthy and even eat peppers.”

“Nope,” Pepper rubs their noses together, “Thanks, Peter. See you and May on Friday?”

“Sounds great,” Peter waves, “Have a nice day!”

“You, too!”

And behind them, the bell tinkles.

__

“How are we doing?” May asks, fingers running through Peter’s hair. They’re crouched in the bathtub, a cup of hot chocolate lukewarm on the counter leaving a dark ring beneath it, gathering themselves in the aftermath of his panic attack.

“Fine,” Peter replies, squeezing his eyes shut, “I just—I was hoping I wouldn’t get these anymore.”

“Oh, Peter.”

“I’m sorry,” He says, pressing his face into her shoulder, “Sorry, May, sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“I just—you love me so much and you hate seeing me hurt—and I don’t—and I called for you—and I forced you to watch me through a panic attack even though I know you don’t like seeing me like this—“

“I want to,” May says, her arms around his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his hairline, “I want to be here for you, in moments like this—“

“You shouldn’t _have _to be—“

“I _want_ to be—“

“But you don’t want to see me like this—“

“Just because I don’t like seeing you hurt doesn’t mean I want you to hide it from me. I never, ever, want you to feel like you have to hide something from me. I never ever want you to feel like you can’t come to me for comfort. I’m always here for you, Peter, and there’s nothing wrong with leaning on others when things get bad.”

He holds her tighter, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

And Peter’s so scared, that one day, May won’t be here when he’s panicking, that she won’t be here when he’s hurt, that one day he’ll be in a bathtub trying to catch his breath and May won’t be alive or around to hold him.

And it’s so stupid. He knows it’s so stupid. There’s a long time until May dies of old age and he’ll find some way to deal with it.

But this is _May_. She’s everything.

“You want some hot chocolate?” May asks, shifting.

“Later,” Peter whispers, holding her tighter, “Please, don’t go.”

She settles again, holding him to her chest, and whispers, “Okay. I’m right here.”

And she is. She’s right there.


	2. what once was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flash throws Peter’s pasta a disdainful look, “What is that?”
> 
> “It’s pasta.”
> 
> “That isn’t pasta. That’s cardboard with imitation tomato sauce.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your daily reminder to take care of yourself. Eat all your meals, drink lots of water, exercise, sleep, all those things. You are worth so much more than you think. (And stop procrastinating. Go do your things--yes, this includes self-care--and then you can come back later.)

Some days, Peter wonders if he was a failure. If Tony wanted more for him than this. If Tony would have preferred Spider-man to this version of Peter Parker.

“It doesn’t matter what he wants,” MJ says, brusque, sharp, “Just what _you_ want,” and Peter supposes it’s true, but it doesn’t change that he wanted—_wants_—to be someone Tony Stark would be proud of. Amazed by, even.

“You’re _Spider-man_,” Ned says, like that’s supposed to say anything, and Peter thinks he understands, but all he can summon is a quiet _not anymore_, looking away from the wrecked expression on Ned’s face as he says, “And if you aren’t—that’s okay, too. You’re still the same you ever were.”

_I don’t feel the same_, Peter doesn’t say. Before, he wanted to be an Avenger. Now? He’d do almost anything for a quiet, peaceful life.

It’s Pepper who finally gets through to him, over a cup of hot soy milk while Peter’s on break, “Tony was a mess. I should know. I married him. Don’t give me that look—it’s true. He was rarely certain about anything. There were a few things he was certain about, though. And a desire for peace—that was one of them. You, living like this—that’s everything Tony ever dreamed of. He’d be happy for you.”

“But is it what he would have done?”

“First of all,” Pepper sips her milk, “I don’t think it matters what he’d have done. And second of all—it _was_. After you died, Tony couldn’t handle it anymore. He retired. Built a home and we raised Morgan together. He did exactly what you’re doing now—and he’d be proud of you, for taking a step back.”

“He went back into battle, though. He was the reason we beat Thanos.”

“That wasn’t because Tony was perfect, Peter. It wasn’t because he as a hero. He didn’t even want to, at first. He wanted to keep his head down. The past was past, why bother changing it? The only reason he did it was because—“

“Because?”

“—Because he wanted to bring you back.”

“So I’m the reason he’s dead?”

“No. Nobody but Tony—and maybe Thanos—is at fault for his death.”

“But it was for me.”

“If you die for Morgan, is that her fault?”

“This is a trap.”

“It’s not, right? Morgan wouldn’t choose for you to die for her. But you would, without doubt. Just because—you love her. And you want her to have a future. That’s what Tony wanted for you.”

“A future?”

“Yes. He wasn’t thinking tactics, Peter—after all, Spider-man’s great, but really, Iron Man is stronger, right? And if he wanted another hero, another fighter, he’d have done it for T’Challa or someone else. But he didn’t. He wanted _you_ back. Just because—just because you’re you. And you retiring, you living a peaceful life—he’d be proud. And even if he weren’t? Can’t you be proud of yourself?”

“So he—he didn’t care? If I was Spider-man or just an ice cream scooper?”

“Doesn’t matter. The world has enough heroes—but there’s only one Peter Parker.”

__

“You’re late,” MJ says, head resting on Ned’s shoulder as he reads to her, nose wrinkling when he describes a kiss, “Ugh, gross. Why does Blabbermouth have to kiss him?”

“Because it’s the archetype,” Ned answers patiently, “The whole point of _Haroun_ is that it’s a classical adventure, that it fulfills all the tropes and cliches. Its charm isn’t in its expectation subversion but that it does the expectations so wonderfully that you’re overcome with nostalgia.”

“It’s annoying,” MJ huffs, and turns back to Peter, “Late.”

“I had to buy lunch at the cafeteria,” Peter huffs, holding up his pasta as proof, “Nobody _brings_ lunches anymore.”

“Flash does. Are you saying he’s nobody?”

Flash glares at Peter.

Peter groans, knowing full well that MJ did that on purpose. She likes provoking people and stirring drama, “No, I’m not saying that Flash is nobody. I’m making a generalization because I’m not late.”

“Hey guys,” Brad rushes in, red-faced, pasta from the cafeteria in hand, “Am I late?”

“No,” MJ says sweetly, “Of course not.”

“Hypocrite,” Peter hisses.

She blows him a kiss, “I thought this is what you wanted, Peter?”

Peter groans and flops down next to Flash, who’s wrapping vegetables into what look like scallion pancakes.

Flash throws Peter’s pasta a disdainful look, “What is _that_?”

“It’s pasta.”

“That isn’t pasta. That’s cardboard with imitation tomato sauce.”

“You haven’t even tasted it.”

Flash grimaces and holds up a fork, “May I?”

Peter, knowing full well that Flash doesn’t like him, having no idea why Flash would do this other than to mock his lunch options, is too tired to do anything but shrug.

Flash, after eating one piece, declares, “I’m right. You shouldn’t eat that, who knows what it might do to your body.”

“It’s literally much lunch.”

Flash shudders, “No. Nope. No way. You can—You have no allergies? Great, okay, well—“ he looks around a bit, then down at his own lunch, picks up a scallion roll, and drops it in Peter’s pasta, “You can have this.”

Peter squints at it, “Why?”

“Because I refuse to let anyone suffer through cafeteria food when it’s unnecessary.”

“I—thanks, Flash,” mystified, Peter takes a bite, “Wait, this is—this is really good.”

“Of course it is.”

“Oh. Did you—was it made by, like, a personal chef or something?”

“Of course not. I made it.”

“_You_ made it?”

“No need to sound so surprised. I’m not useless at everything, you know.”

“No, I’m not—that’s not—I never said that.”

“Right,” Flash scowls at his pancakes, _just implied it _left hanging in the air.

“I don’t—I don’t think you’re useless. I think you’re very smart.”

“I just gave you my lunch,” Flash’s lips twist, wry, “So.”

“No, I—you are really smart. You always raise your hand in class—“

“Even though I’m wrong most of the time.”

“So am I.”

“No, you’re not. You’re always right. You always know the answer, the teachers all love you.”

“They love you, too.”

Flash glowers, “Bug off, Parker.”

“Flash, you’re not—you shouldn’t compare yourself to me.”

“Because you’ll always be better than me?”

“Because different people have different strengths. I can’t cook at all, but you don’t see me comparing us.”

“You can’t cook?”

“Of course _that’s_ what you’re focusing on.”

“I can—“ Flash shifts his food around, “i can teach you. If you want.”

Surprised, Peter grins, “Yeah,” he says, “That would be nice.”

__

“Dinner,” May says, standing at the doorway, bowl of spaghetti in hand.

“I’m not hungry,” Peter says, drowning in numb panic, trying to avoid looking at May without seeming suspicious.

“I’ll just put it here,” May sets it on his desk, bends over and kisses his forehead, “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, and because May sits down, on the edge of his bed, book in hand, he starts to eat. “It tastes good. Thanks, May.”

She preens a bit, flashing a bright smile before returning to her book.

Peter would normally start conversation, maybe ask about her book, but he’s tired today, tired and numb, so he eats and tries not to pull into himself and crack.

He waits for her to leave, so he can put the bowl away and bury himself under his covers, but May just sits there, patiently reading.

He might almost think that she was just there for the sake of it, but the way that she keeps her hair down instead of putting it up like she tends to when reading gives her away. She’s waiting. Maybe for him to talk. More likely for him to finish eating.

May knows how to wait. How not to push.

When he’s done, she takes the bowl and kisses his forehead and says, “Don’t forget to eat next time.”

“Okay,” Peter says, quiet, feeling a bit better, a bit more solid. Less like a ghost, more human, “I love you, May.”

She smiles. Smooths his hair from his forehead, and nods, a sort of satisfaction smoothing out the wrinkles in her forehead, “Love you.”

And she leaves.

Peter closes his eyes, waits a moment, and then starts his homework.

__

There’s a bank robbery. Peter—Peter doesn’t even _think_. God, that’s how bad it is. He doesn’t even think before he flips his hood over his head, jumps in, and stops them.

He doesn’t even think to stop when he takes a bullet to the shoulder (_stepping in front of a little girl_) and flips over the gunman (_can he pass it off as being a gymnast? Will anyone look too closely?_), bashing in two heads and shouting, “Surrender!” in an embarrassingly high-pitched voice.

The next thing he knows, the rest of the robbers are putting their hands up and the police are there, sirens ringing in Peter’s ears as he flips his hood back and turns to the paramedic and says, weakly, “I’ve been shot. It’s very painful.”

“No kidding,” the woman says, clicking her tongue against her teeth in a way that reminds him of May, tossing a shock blanket over him and jerking her chin, “Come on, let’s get that looked at.”

“The criminals—“ Peter blurts, “I beat up—I beat up three of them. The others surrendered, is everyone—is everyone okay? You should look at them. I didn’t knock any of them out but they might be hurt.”

“Nothing more than a few bruises,” the paramedic takes his hand and pulls gently, like he’s a kid (_you are a kid, May says, as Peter whispers that he doesn’t want to be Spider-man—was that a lie?_), “Nobody but you had even a scratch.”

“Oh,” Peter mumbles as they head to the ambulance, “Um, this isn’t, like, super serious, is it? Because I’m—I’m on my lunch break. I need to be at schools soon.”

The corners of the paramedic’s lips pull up, “That’s very studious,” she remarks, making him sit down, “But I think your bullet wound would take priority. I’ms sure your teachers will understand.”

“The school system sucks,” Peter says.

“Yeah,” she sighs, a little angry but mostly exhausted, and Peter knows, in that moment, that she’s a mom.

“You have a kid?”

A surprised blink, then a soft laugh, “Yeah. About your age, actually—you’re a student at Midtown, right? He’s at a private academy in Brooklyn, so I guess you wouldn’t know him.”

“Maybe in the future,” Peter says woozily, “Sorry for—um—getting shot.”

“Did you intend to?”

Peter scrunches up his nose, “What?”

“I didn’t think so. So long as it wasn’t on purpose, I really don’t see what you have to apologize for.”

“I’m going to worry my aunt,” Peter says quietly, watching as they do—doctor-y things to his wound.

“Your aunt?”

“My parents died when I was young, so she took me in. She’s like my mom—she basically is. And when she finds out, she’s going to be so mad. I promised her that I wouldn’t get in fights anymore.”

“You used to fight?”

“Kind of—“ Maybe that wasn’t the best way to say it, (_I got you, he chants, over and over, trying desperately to stay alive as Thanos brings down the sky_), “I didn’t mean to—“ _(let me be an Avenger, Mr. Stark_), “but it worried her,” (_so many things left unsaid, that he can never say out loud_), “and it wasn’t good for me, either. So I stopped.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Heart in his throat, Peter wonders if the paramedic would still say that if she knew that he was Spider-man.

That Spider-man’s disappearance wasn’t because of an injury, or death, but because he was afraid. Because he didn’t want to have to be an Avenger, at least not when he was sixteen. The he didn’t want to be scared of dying when he should have been worried about getting into MIT.

Maybe she would understand. She’s a mom, and moms have that kind of understanding. May understood, more than anymore, more than even Peter had, when she told him he had to quit, finding Peter shaking in the bathtub, still dressed in his suit and trying to breathe.

“Yeah,” Peter answers, faintly, “I am, too.”

She smiles at him, “I’m Rio. Rio Morales.”

“Peter,” Peter says, “Peter Parker,” and saying that, saying his name, feels clean. It feels right.

He’s not Spider-man. Maybe he will be. He had been, once. But right now—right now, he’s Peter Parker. And that—that’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read Mary Oliver's _Wild Geese_. It's everything. This is also your checkpoint to get up and stretch. Go get a glass of water or just walk a bit. No leaving until you do so!


	3. toes in the pool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “An adult. Someone—someone with more experience. You’re a kid,” and suddenly all she can think about is Peter, taking shuddering breaths in her shoulder, hidden in the grocery isle, a spilled bottle of glitter on the floor as he remembers dying slowly but surely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, watching in horror as plot creeps in: noooooOOOOOO  
Also, no reading this before you drink water!!! That's not allowed!

_“Shot_,” May says loudly, voice shrill as she throws her hands in the air, “_Shot_!”

“Sorry,” Peter says, sheepish as Rio hides a smile, “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t intend for this.”

“Of course not,” May says waspishly, “Does anyone ever _intend_ to get shot?”

“People who commit suicide,” Peter says.

“Don’t joke,” May groans, “I’m trying to lecture you here. Do _you_ want to commit suicide, Peter? Leave me desolate and mourning? Is that what you want, hm?”

“No,” Peter mutters.

“Then _why_.”

“Because there was a bank robbery!”

“You never go to banks!”

“I was—I was just passing by and I saw what was going on and—“

“This is just like—“ May shoots Rio a look, and sighs, “This is just like back then. I’m not mad, I just—I thought we wouldn’t have to deal with this anymore. Or at least, not until you went to university.”

“This isn’t me being—“ Peter glances at Rio, “This isn’t me being what I was, May.”

“No,” May agrees. She sits down and buries her face in his hair, “This is you being just like Ben.”

_Oh_, Peter thinks, heart dropping to his stomach, eyes squeezing shut involuntarily, thinking of a cooling body below him, his high pitched scream, the way everything lurched—

Spider-man, because the least he could do was honour Ben, after—

“I’m sorry, May,” he says, because he can’t change, he can’t change this, but he’s sorry all the same, because May is good and kind and they had moved past Peter being hurt, or so she’d thought, and now— “I really am.”

“I know, baby,” May whispers, soft and understanding and everything Peter doesn’t deserve but gets anyways, because he is loved.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Rio says, jerking her chin towards the door, fading away with the soft _click_ as it shuts behind her.

May smooths a hand over Peter’s cheek, breathes in, and sighs, “I’m proud, Peter. What you did—that was good of you.”

“You just wish that it wasn’t me,” Peter murmurs.

“Can I get any more selfish?” May laughs self-depreciatingly, turning her face away, “I just wish—I just wish it wasn’t you that had to do these sorts of things. You don’t need to be a hero.”

“I do, May. If you can do something, and you don’t—“

“—Then it’s your fault,” she murmurs, echoing, closing her eyes.

She knows. She understands.

Doesn’t mean she has to like it.

“But it isn’t,” May says, her last bid, “It’s not your fault. You aren’t Atlas, Peter. It doesn’t have to be you, holding up the sky.”

“Then who will?”

“An adult. Someone—someone with more experience. You’re a kid,” and suddenly all she can think about is Peter, taking shuddering breaths in her shoulder, hidden in the grocery isle, a spilled bottle of glitter on the floor as he remembers dying slowly but surely.

“I’m not going to be Spider-man,” Peter says, “But who is Peter Parker, if not someone who does what I did today?”

“A kid,” May says, uselessly, because she knows his mind is set, “A kid, Peter.”

“I didn’t want to fight,” Peter whispers, “I really didn’t, May.”

“I know. I’m so proud,” May brushes a stray eyelash from his cheek, “I just wish—I just wish I could protect you more.”

“I’m not a kid anymore.”

“You’ll always be my kid.”

__

“What’s the point of being good?” Peter asks, curled in May’s lap, eyes closed, “If it doesn’t do anything good for you?”

She bends over, fingers carding through his hair as she whispers, “What brought this on?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I just—why bother?”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s no real point to being nice.”

“No?”

“I just—it doesn’t make other people any nicer.”

“What about people who are nice?”

“Being nice to people who are nice to you isn’t being good. It’s just—being. It doesn’t take any effort to cook dinner for you or bring Tylenol for MJ or stay up late to help Ned with his homework because I love you and you love me and it’s easy. But just—getting a chair for the girl who sits next to me even though she never does that for me, or complimenting my teacher when she was mean to Flash—why should I do that?”

“I don’t know,” May hums, tipping her head back and closing her eyes, “What’s the point?”

Peter rolls onto his back, shoulder-blades digging into May’s knees, and sighs, “Can’t you just tell me?”

“This isn’t the sort of thing that can be told.”

“Can’t you try?”

“You want a reason to be good?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because—because I should be good. Because being good is the right thing to do.”

“Isn’t that reason enough?”

“Is it?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I’m just,” Peter turns and presses his face against May’s knee, “I’m just tired. And being nice just—seems to be excess that makes me even more tired.”

“You don’t have to be nice, Peter. You don’t have to be good.”

“I should be.”

May is silent for a moment, before she bends over and presses a kiss against Peter’s cheek, “Remember right after Tony died? When you tried to be Spider-man? Tried to keep saving people? And it just got worse and worse? You thought you had to be Spider-man, but you didn’t. And you don’t have to be anything just because you _should_ be. Do what you want, Peter. I won’t stand in your way.”

“I want to,” Peter whispers, “I want to be good, May. I want to be nice. I’m just—tired.”

“Then be tired. Take a few days off from being good. See if it helps.”

“Do you think it will?”

“Do you?”

“…No. I want to help people whether I’m tired or not.”

“I’m so proud of you,” May whispers.

“I know,” Peter whispers back.

“And even if you decide that you’re sick of this—I’ll still be proud of you. No matter what.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“But it’s true.”

“Why is it so hard to be nice to people we don’t like?”

“Everything’s made easier with love, and harder for the lack of it.”

“I wish things were just easy.”

“What would be the point?”

“The point would be that things wouldn’t be hard. Things wouldn’t be so frustrating or exhausting.”

“Would you really want that? A world where everything comes easy?”

A beat, and then, quietly, “No. Things are worth more when I work for them.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I don’t know, May,” Peter sits up and rests his head on her shoulder, “Can we stop talking about this now?”

“Yeah. Of course, sweetheart. What do you want to do?”

“Movie?”

She presses a kiss to his forehead, soft and sweet, “Of course.”

__

Peter cooks with May.

He can remember a time when they had takeout all the time—when it was okay to not cook, because why bother learn to cook when there were a million other things to do (and when being in the kitchen always hurt because it reminded them too much of Ben)?

But then May wanted—_Peter_ wanted—to open the parlour and they started cooking themselves to save and suddenly it’s this thing, now, that May no longer burns rice and Peter is now at a far lower risk of accidentally cutting himself when he’s trying to peel the carrots.

He’s in a bad mood so this—being with May, having a task to concentrate on that he can’t mess up too badly—it grounds him.

He’s peeling ginger and May is humming as she slices the eggplant and it’s perfect.

And then the doorbell rings.

__

Happy is a welcome surprise. The message he brings is not.

“Fury wants you back in the field,” Happy says quietly, standing in the doorway, uncertain if he should go in, “I told him—both Pepper and I told him—no, but he doesn’t seem like he’s taking no for an answer, especially with all the Avengers up in space, dealing with the rest of Thanos’ army.”

“Tell him to ask Valkyrie for help,” May says, furious, “Or one of the Defenders. Peter’s sixteen, hasn’t he been through enough?”

“I’m not telling you to take him up on the offer,” Happy says, shoving his hands in his pockets, “Like I said, I tried to dissuade him. I’m just warning you, so this doesn’t come out of the blue. But if you don’t want to help, Fury shouldn’t be able to force you. I’ll always back you up, Peter.”

And Peter hasn’t talked with Happy much for all that he sees him every other week on movie nights with Pepper and Morgan, but he understands, in that moment, that Happy would do anything to let Peter stay on the bench.

“Thanks,” he says, quietly, blinking back memories of the last time he was in the suit, watching Tony die, knowing that was the only way he could stay alive, “I appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Happy nods, “I’ll just—I’ll be going, then.”

“You could stay for dinner,” Peter says, glancing at May, “We’re making enough.”

Happy offers a soft, wry smile and says, “That’s alright. I’m eating with Pepper and Morgan tonight—promised Morgan we’d play pirates.”

“Okay,” Peter says, small, horribly grateful because this means that when he breaks down, it won’t have to be in front of Happy.

May sends him off to wash the bok choy (a way to escape this conversation, an excuse to stress about this in private) and talks a bit more with Happy, inviting him in and shutting the door behind, talking in hushed voices that Peter can only pick up because of his enhanced hearing.

When they’re done, they nod at each other, grim, and May locks the door behind Happy.

“You aren’t going to be Spider-man,” she says, firmly, “Not if you don’t want to.”

Peter can’t look at her. He wills his hands not to shake as he says, “This retirement was only supposed to be temporary, anyways. Just until—just until I got past the panic attacks.”

“Do you want to be Spider-man?”

He tries to will himself to say yes. To shrug and say _sure_ as though it doesn’t bother him.

He remembers dying.

He can’t say it.

“I never want you to feel like you _have_ to do it, Peter. Let us—let us handle this. You won’t have to lift a finger.”

“Okay,” Peter whispers, and starts peeling the ginger, “Thanks, May.”

“For what?” she leans over and kisses his forehead, “Maybe Fury will back off.”

“Sure,” Peter agrees, halfheartedly.

He wants to believe it.

He doesn’t.

__

Fury is radio silent after Happy’s warning.

There’s nothing for a month—and Peter thinks, maybe Fury backed off. Maybe he realized that Peter wasn’t going to be Spider-man, and went for a better option.

Then the school announces a surprise field trip to Europe for the Aca-Dec team, sponsored by a “mysterious benefactor”, and Peter wonders.

“I want to go,” Peter tells May, “But what if—“

“You’re worried this is because of Fury.”

“Yeah.”

May squeezes his hand, and says, “It’s up to you.”

Peter doesn’t want to be Spider-man.

He wants, so desperately, to go to Europe. This is the chance of a lifetime.

“I can always say no,” he says.

“Yes,” May agrees, soft, “You can always say no.”

So Peter’s going to Europe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You, right now, are the best possible version of yourself. I don't care if you used to know a million languages, dance, and painted daily and then forgot that all. You're good. And you're only going to get better. You're more than enough, and you don't need to prove that fact to anyone, including yourself.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you're all doing well. Take care of yourselves, be hydrated, well-rested, etc., and never forget that you are loved.


End file.
